hide your eye, pretty little girl
by angels fly with starry wings
Summary: You don't know anything about him and he doesn't know anything about you except that you both meet up at the same dirty alley corner every Wednesday evening. You don't know why you still go, but maybe you do. DannySam, AU


_hide your eye, pretty little girl_

**by**

_angels fly with starry wings_

.*.

You're so confused but so not at the same time.

You don't know anything about him and he doesn't know anything about you except that you both meet up at the same dirty alley corner every Wednesday evening, if only to talk for a few moments before parting ways.

You don't know why you still go, but maybe you do.

.*.

You turn that corner and your untied boot scuffs upon a used cigarette. With a scowl on your face, you quickly scrape it off before looking up to see _him_ trying valiantly to repress a smile.

He says hey. You say hi.

Neither of you know what you're doing, but you don't really care. You live for the evenings when you see him.

You never _really_ speak.

Sure, you both greet each other and exchange small talk about college and family and past relationships (why do you talk about those again?), but it never goes deeper. For some reason, you're both simply content to lean on that disgustingly filthy wall and stand in silence, sticking your slightly sweaty hands deeper into your sweatshirt pockets, as if that would shield them from the cold air.

Well, if the air's cold, why are your palms sweating?

.*.

Weeks tick by, and you soon forget how you met.

One night you lie in your bed, the soft snores of your roommate floating through the stale dorm air, and try to sort out what your relationship is.

After two hours, you've gotten nowhere, so you push him out of your mind and roll over, squeezing your eyes shut and commanding yourself to go to sleep.

It's another hour before you actually do, and you could've sworn you saw vivid green eyes at the window just before drifting off.

.*.

A year passes.

You still don't know anything about him, and he doesn't know anything about you.

It's starting to bother you.

He's starting to wear baseball hats all the time. You find this odd, because one of the rare details he divulged to you was that he hated hats. You never wore them after that and found yourself wondering why not.

You can't work up the courage to ask why he's wearing them, but it plucks at your curiosity all the same.

You push it out of your mind.

Like all the other times, it doesn't really work.

.*.

It's been almost two years since you began meeting at that cold alley wall.

You don't know why you keep going, but there's something about the way your heart elatedly twinges when you see him that makes you keep going back.

You want to know his name.

One evening you arrive before him. So, having nothing else to do, you pick at your nails and lean against the icy brick wall (you can't wait to move somewhere warm), patiently waiting for his arrival.

Forty-two minutes later, he rounds the corner breathing hard, looking green in the face and squishing his baseball cap onto his skull with a strange urgency.

He says he forgot.

.*.

It's warm enough to take off your heavy sweatshirt and just wear a long-sleeved top. Maybe it's a heat wave.

It's a Wednesday evening, and you usually don't leave for another hour and a half, but you find yourself tying your beat-up old combat boots and walking out of your dorm door, telling your roommate not to wait up. You never know how late you'll be out.

She stopped asking about him long ago, since you stopped answering even longer ago.

.*.

You can't help yourself.

What's your name? you ask.

His eyebrows scrunch together, and you inwardly cringe.

Why?

I want to know.

He angrily pushes himself away from the wall, crossing the narrow alley and pounding his fist on the already-broken bricks, shaking his hand with pain almost immediately, cursing as crimson drips down his skinny wrist.

I thought that we decided on no details. I thought it was better that way.

You blink back unexpected tears. Why are you crying? You don't know.

I just want to know your name. I thought we could be real friends.

He starts yelling.

Weren't you happy with this? Just two people standing and talking, maybe sharing a drink together? I enjoyed not knowing about you. I liked having a secret.

You desperately reach a hand out towards him, but he walks a few steps away, massaging his forehead. His baseball cap falls off, and you see that his once handsomely disheveled black hair is thin, so very thin, as if it was falling out rapidly. You catch a glitter in his eye, but blame it on the shrinking sun. You came early again, but so did he. You thought that might have meant something. Maybe you were wrong.

I-I'm sorry.

I think we should stop.

Your heart breaks, but you nod like the pretty little girl you are.

Okay.

And then you separate without another word or without a tear.

You never found out his name.

.*.

He found you, somehow, and as you hold the funeral invitation card, you're glad that he did.

You know who he was now.

His name was Danny.

You think you might have loved him.

.*.

_aaaaah, i've never written anything for the danny phantom archive! lay it on me, guys, i love the constructive criticism. (:_

_obviously, this is an alternate universe. if you were confused (although you guys are smart, so i doubt it), danny had cancer and died of it. he found sam because he's a creepy stalker ghost. _

_i'm actually proud of this, which is weird, because it's terrible and i should have lengthened it, but, please, REVIEW. _

_and, yes, danny did get his ghost powers without sam. (:_

_.aRi._


End file.
